


Happiness is an Extremely Uneventful Subject

by laceaesthetic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22247233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laceaesthetic/pseuds/laceaesthetic
Summary: Testimony of Martin Blackwood regarding an unending feeling of being watched. Documented on February 5th, 2019, directly from the victim by Ashley Vera, Head Preservationist at The Shelley Foundation, Key West, Florida.An alternate universe where Martin was touched by The Lonely much earlier.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 31
Kudos: 108





	1. Side A

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "No Choir" by Florence + The Machine
> 
> "Oh, darling, things seem so unstable  
> But for a moment we were able to be still
> 
> And there will be no grand choirs to sing  
> No chorus will come in  
> No ballad will be written  
> This will be entirely forgotten"
> 
> This fic will have some chapters written in transcript format, some written in third person point of view, and others will be mixed.  
> Chapter 1 has trigger warnings for: mentions of death and strenuous maternal relationships.

[INT. THE SHELLEY FOUNDATION]

[Tape clicks on]

****PRESERVATIONIST:** **

Sorry, technology can be so… _unreliable_ nowadays.

****MARTIN:** **

Nothing I’m not used to.

****PRESERVATIONIST:** **

Is that so? How interesting. Testimony of Martin Blackwood, regarding…?

****MARTIN:** **

The _unending_ feeling of being watched.

****PRESERVATIONIST:** **

Hm. Regarding the unending feeling of being watched. Documented on February 5th, 2019, directly from the victim by Ashley Vera, Head Preservationist at The Shelley Foundation, Key West, Florida. Now, can-

****MARTIN:** **

Sorry, but, _Preservationist?_ London has, uh, its own sort of foundation, and they call your role an Archivist. Seems like less of a mouthful.

****PRESERVATIONIST:** **

I am well aware of the workings of The Magnus Institute, Mr. Blackwood. But, I’ll remind you that America quite prides itself on being apart from England, if we really must rehash old battles.

****MARTIN:** **

Right. Makes sense. Sorry.

****PRESERVATIONIST**** :

Now, can you tell me what happened?

[A peal of static is heard, and Martin gives a sound of discontent. Ashley gives a long _hmmm_ sound.]

****MARTIN:** **

No need to compel me, I’m here willingly.

****PRESERVATIONIST:** **

You must realize how strange this is. I don’t know why you’re here.

****MARTIN:** **

And _I_ didn’t know how much you knew about… the world we entangle ourselves with. But now I do, and I will tell you _now_ , that whatever I tell you will be of my own accord. This is already hard enough. You don’t have to… puppet my mouth.

****PRESERVATIONIST:** **

_[A slight giggle.]_ That’s not my job.

****MARTIN:** **

_[Irate.]_ My point is, if you want to know why I’m here—my _statement—_ then you’ll have to lay off me, Otherwise, you can learn which Fear I serve _the hard way._ Deal?

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

Deal. _[Her voice reveals that she is not very intimidated by Martin.]_ Testimony begins.

****MARTIN:** **

People don’t notice me. Never have, mostly never will. My mom _tried_ not to notice me, but every time she did, this look of… _disgust_ and hatred was so clear on her features, I realized it was better to never be noticed.

I never did… _[Sighs.]_ I never did learn why she hated me so much. I tried my best to be the perfect son, but when has that ever been such a thing? _[Dry laugh.]_ It wasn’t that much of a problem when I would go to school and she would work and we wouldn’t see much of each other. We could exist around each other, pretending that we didn’t get into fights every Monday. It became more difficult when she fell ill and stopped working, and I had to take care of her all the time.

One day, after a particularly bad row with my mother, I just wished that she would stop noticing me. The desire to just, pass her and have her eyes glide right past me was so _intense_ , the most intense thing I ever felt. I went to sleep with that feeling bubbling in me, filling me. Even now, looking back, it was so childish of me to let myself get worked up like that. Rather embarrassing. When I woke up, I felt better. Not good, but better, and I realized I should just push it aside. I got up, I cooked, and I opened my mom’s door to serve her breakfast. But, when I did, she just called out, asking who was there. I answered her of course, but all she did was keep asking _for me,_ as if, I wasn’t there. I ran up to her and touched her arm, and she jerked back and looked around, trying to find what touched her.

It was terrifying at first. I teared up, I tried yelling at her to get her to _notice_ me. And then, all of a sudden, it wasn’thorrific anymore _._ Some sick, twisted, perversion of fear filled me with adrenaline, and I… I felt _good. [Pause]_ To, to this day, I-I don’t know what overcame me. I stopped trying to get her attention. I left. I left my bedridden mother with no caretaker. I don’t know what happened to her. _[Another dry laugh.]_ I don’t _care_ what happened to her. Sometimes, I try to justify it to myself, I think “ _she never loved me anyways.”_ Other times, I realize I would have left her even if she did love me.

I can see the look in your eyes, Preservationist. You _know_ this isn’t the story I came here to talk about. You’re Hungry for the _real_ story. You could always interrupt me, make me get to the point, but you won’t, because this is the appetizer. But, I really don’t like having someone look at me for too long, so I suppose it will benefit the both of us if I hurry up.

The next few years are unremarkable. I feed The Lonely when I need to, enjoy my life of quiet contemplation when I don’t. I’m not the best avatar, but I’m decent. I am as unobtrusive as anyone of our kind can be. Stay off the radar, stay safe. And _yet,_ one day I have this crawling feeling up my back. I know I described it as being watched, but that’s not quite right. That’s only what I call it now that I know the source. In reality, it felt like… _needles_ on my skin and I wanted it _gone. [Martin’s static faintly layers his words. It peaks at gone, and then fades out again.]_ I looked around, but I was still alone in a crowd, and there was no one looking at me.

Of course, I can’t simply be invisible to everyone all the time. Sometimes, I have to drop what I’m doing to talk to a cashier or a victim I want to tenderize before I serve it to The Lonely. Minuscule things really, no problem. But when I feltthose needles, _I was concealing myself_. I was trying to figure out what was happening, perhaps it was another avatar trying to contact me! B-but avatars of The Lonely don’t cooperate well unless it’s time for a ritual, and logically no _other_ avatar should be able to find me. Except, of course, one of The Beholding’s pets. _[His voice grits out these last words. It’s clear he doesn’t think well of The Eye.]_ It was clear that, no matter how hard I tried to be left alone, I had ended up picking up the interest of The Archivist. The unease I felt told me that he was exerting quite a bit of power to find me, but couldn’t See me very well. Perhaps, he only got blurry images of where I was. It doesn’t matter, because I resolved to pack up my sparse belongings and live somewhere else. I stayed in London for convenience, but having The Eye breathing down my back was _not_ convenient. So, I left.

Scotland was fine. Uneventful. And then one day, it wasn’t. I was sitting in the corner of a cafe, Hungry and waiting for someone I could whisk away to feed myself, when the needles came _again_. It gave me an awful headache. I looked around, and there on the street, outside of the cafe, was _The Archivist._ His head turned in one direction, and then slowly, deliberately, turned to the other, in _my direction_. I was Hungry and weak, but I was not going to face a servant of The Eye no matter what. I don’t mean to offend, but your ilk is rather bothersome for my kind.

I took all the power I had left to conceal myself and fled. I fed on the first person I could knowing it would only sustain me for a week at most, there wasn’t enough _fear_ in her for me to get proper nutrition, and I packed my bags. I decided that Europe was too close, and took a flight here. I wasn’t in Florida at first. I was in some rural state I can’t even remember anymore, but I know it was in the Midwest. I liked the Midwest. It was a nice area to stay in, all those open fields and farms, everyone telling themselves that they were used to the isolation but not being very convincing about it. It was quiet. It didn’t last, it _never_ does.

This time, the feeling was so faint, I wouldn’t have noticed it if I was doing _anything_ at the moment. The Archivist didn’t know where I was exactly, but he was getting close. I know he’ll try and find me based on the survivors of my meals. What he probably doesn’t realize is that there are _other_ avatars to muddle his results. Not that it would matter much, I’m sure The Eye will help him find the right path anyways. Like I’ve said, bothersome. I know he’ll realize I’m in Key West. I’m giving this statement as a message to him. I want him to _stop Seeing me._ That’s all

****PRESERVATIONIST:** **

Are you sure that you did nothing that would raise his attention at all?

[Static begins to rise, it is The Preservationist’s static, high-pitched and grating, _insistent_. Martin grunts in pain.]

****MARTIN:** **

I met him once. Before I became an avatar. _[Groans.] Do not compel me. [The static blows out. A moment of silence.]_ It’s funny. When the Archivist tries to See me, it feels like being stared at by a crowd. Even when you compel me, it just feels like… maintaining eye contact. _[One last dry laugh.]_ This is over. _[Sarcastically.]_ Statement ends.

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on.]

****PRESERVATIONIST:** **

_[Bitterly.]_ Testimony ends. And he left the office a mess on his way out. Tch. _[She clears her throat.]_ A background check on Mr. Blackwood reveals that he lives a quaint life, nothing so extravagant as an older avatar might be inclined to. At least, until his travels start. That’s not to say he _hasn’t_ been body-hopping, but more so that he keeps himself hidden. His mother died of the flu, a particularly nasty strain that her weakened immune system could not hope to fight off. Next-of-kin could not be contacted, it seems that Mr. Blackwood did not leave a forwarding address when he was supposedly overtaken by The Lonely. The body was cremated. I could check a great deal of things about Mr. Blackwood the way I normally do, but I rather not draw his anger _again._ I'll stick to old-fashioned skepticism. What is interesting about Mr. Blackwood is not what happened to him, but what _will_ happen to him. Of course, an avatar is always interesting, though there will always be commonalities between them. Cowards that try their best to get over their fear, or adrenaline junkies who used their fear as a pick-me-up. He falls into the former. What has Mr. Blackwood withheld from me that would make an Archivist so interested in him? If he is right in his assumption that he will be followed, perhaps I will know soon enough. However, I am hesitant to actually _forward_ this testimony to The Magnus Institute. There’s very little… _meat_ to it. No actual new knowledge to be gained, just the grievances of a fed-up avatar. Reads a little bit like an HR complaint, actually. _[She laughs.]_ I will tell the receptionist to take note if one Jonathan Sims ever comes around. I'd love to have a chat with him.

[Tape clicks off.]


	2. Side B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RECEPTIONIST: Hi Ashley! There's a Jonathan Sims here to see you. He says it's something uber important but it's like not a testimony? Should I let him in or liiiike...
> 
> PRESERVATIONIST: Let him in, I already told you this in advance, Daniela.
> 
> RECEPTIONIST: [Whispered.] Oh I know, I just wanted to mess with him a little. [At a normal volume.] Ms. Vera will see you now.

[Tape clicks on.]

**ARCHIVIST:**

And how old is this statement?

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

About a week old. You’re quite lucky, the tape only came back around to my office so that I could record the verification detailing. I was meant to file it away a day ago, but I’ve got a bit of a backlog. If it had been filed— _[She laughs.]_ Well that would’ve held you back the better part of a day.

**ARCHIVIST:**

_[Absentmindedly.]_ Yes I am quite lucky.

[A long moment of silence. The running of the tape recorder becomes quite apparent. The Preservationist gasps.]

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

_[A mix of astonishment and unease.]_ Are you recording already?

**ARCHIVIST:**

I—uh, yes, I am. It’s a habit.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

Huh. _[Pause.]_ I must warn you, Jonathan, while the Eye might guide you, do not let it control you.

**ARCHIVIST:**

_[Pause.]_ Thank you for the concern, Ashley. But please, no need to be so formal. Just Jon is fine.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

Who said I was being formal?

**ARCHIVIST:**

Oh. _[Laughs.]_ Yes well, I’ll go over this statement now.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

I’ll give you some privacy. _Complete_ privacy. Go over this testimony for yourself, not for The Eye.

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on.]

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

I’m not sure how helpful any of that was.

**ARCHIVIST:**

It was quite illuminating.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

I’m glad. That being said, I hope you don’t mind my curiosity, but I have-

**ARCHIVIST:**

_[Warmly.]_ You have some questions. Your recorder tipped me off enough.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

_[She laughs.]_ I don’t try to be transparent. Yes, I’d like to ask about Mr. Blackwood. If he’s dangerous, or interesting to you for _personal_ reasons, I need to know. Now that he’s in America, it feels like my concern. At least until he gets out of the South.

**ARCHIVIST:**

A testimony?

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

If you’d prefer. But really, I think we’re both capable of having a normal conversation.

**ARCHIVIST:**

No, I- Well, I’ve taken so many statements that it might be due time that I give one, if only to get my thoughts out on the matter. But… Is it possible to keep this off of the official record?

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

I never was one inclined to record keeping. You can keep this tape, not Mr. Blackwood’s testimony though. I’m afraid that’s all I can give you. _[Cheeky.]_ I won’t even do the introduction.

**ARCHIVIST:**

How rebellious of you. _[Clears throat.]_ I suppose, I should start from the beginning. There was this bookstore that showed up in a lot of my statements. I knew it was out of business, but I wanted to see what was left of it. Drove up, and to my surprise, _another_ bookstore popped up in its place.

I looked around it, I was afraid another Leitner might be around. Uh- do you know what a Leitner is?

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

Yes, I do. I’m American, not ignorant. Ah- don’t make a joke about that.

[He laughs a little, then clears his throat.]

**ARCHIVIST:**

Right, well, I looked around the place. There really wasn’t much there I promise you, I scoured the whole damn building. It was just your average bookstore. Homely and quaint to the average person. Terribly boring when you think of what _used_ to reside in those four walls. But, I decided that I had loitered in the shop enough to garner buying _something._ So I picked up whatever classic novel I felt the most drawn to and went to get rang up.

The cashier was fine, a little slow for only one book, but I thought it must have been his first day. So even though I knew the service was horrid, I’m not one to kick up a fuss. I wanted to thank him anyway, and my mother always said that “Thank you’s” “Hello’s” and “I love you’s” will always be better if you know the person’s name. It was the one thing she said that ever passed as a joke. But ever since, I have a habit of always including the name of a worker when I thank them. So, I looked down at his tag. His name was Martin. _[The Preservationist makes a small sound of understanding.]_

I really wouldn’t have thought anything of it. I have a good memory, but I’m sure I would have forgotten him pretty easily if nothing ever occurred. I would have gone back home and lived the rest of my life as normal, or well, as normal as being an avatar can get. Except that, about a month later, a young woman came to the institute to give a statement.

She had survived an attack from The Lonely. I-I won’t repeat everything she told me, but the basis of her tale was that she turned a street corner in broad daylight, to find that everything was empty. She turned back around to the street she came from, but that was empty too. It hadn’t been empty previously. She wandered around for a while when she saw a man for the first time in what seemed like days. The way she described him felt _familiar_ but I couldn’t place my finger on it.

That is, until, she told me that she had a conversation with the man. She thought whatever paranormal event that happened had finally passed. But the man seemed surprised to see her and kept dodging her intent questions. The more she talked to him, the more she realized that this was a _part_ of whatever was happening to her. She asked, “What are you,” and he looked at her, at first a little taken aback and then… a little sad. He just replied with, “Well, I-I’m Martin.” That’s when it clicked.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

But why chase him? To avenge a victim? To keep a fresh avatar from gaining more powers?

**ARCHIVIST:**  
No, no, none of that. It’s— _[He breathes deeply, composing himself.]_ I don’t know if you have ever met an avatar _before_ they become an avatar. I did, before I even met Martin. Her name was Helen, came to take a statement, and she was so _scared_ of everything, wanted nothing more than to never think of the incident again. Then she got sucked up by The Spiral. It’s a horrid thing. At least other avatars keep their sense of identity, but Helen? She’s not anyone outside of The Spiral. She’s a bundle of electrical cords wrapped together with no rhyme or reason. She’s not Helen. Not the one I knew so briefly. When I realized Martin became an avatar I… Well, I’ll admit that I panicked. I wanted to see if he was okay, still himself, or if he got sucked up too.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

But that’s not it. _[Sharp static. The Preservationist is trying to See and the Archivist can See this. It makes for a quite confusing mix of frequencies. It harshly fizzles out. Ashley coughs.]_ You can’t blame my curiosity.

**ARCHIVIST:**

I know I can’t, but I’d prefer if you’d let me tell it to you willingly. _[A pause.]_ A small part of me, wanted to know if I could bring him back.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

Bring him back?

**ARCHIVIST:**  
Make him… not an avatar.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

_[Aggravated.]_ How? These aren’t outfits you can pick and choose. Sure, you can get marked by an entity and make it out alright, but to become an avatar? That is devotion, that is your _life._

**ARCHIVIST:**  
_[Gravely.]_ There’s no coming back, I know. But, I didn’t think much when I was trying to find him in London. When he moved to Scotland, I thought I might as well just give it one more chance. But after that? I was… consumed by my need to find an answer, to _try._

**PRESERVATIONIST:**  
_[In a tone of wonder.]_ The Eye wants to know the answer too.

**ARCHIVIST:**

Is that a good thing?

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, does it?

[The mix of frequencies happens again, it fizzles out just as harshly as the first time. Jon laughs dryly.]

**ARCHIVIST:**

No, it doesn’t.

**PRESERVATIONIST:**

I hope you’ll tell me about your results.

**ARCHIVIST:**

Of course.

[A dry laugh escapes the Preservationist. It is rough, almost _predatory_ , in nature. The Archivist joins her, though his laugh is much more clipped. They abruptly fall silent.]

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on.]

**ARCHIVIST:**

Supplemental. Ashley is, well, she conducts herself in a manner expected from an avatar of The Eye to a tee. _[Dryly.]_ The Shelley Foundation seems to have a better grip on organizational skills than The Institute, perhaps because their previous Head Preservationist isn’t actively trying to obscure things from her boss. _[He sighs softly.]_ Anyways, that’s not really important. It is a bit unnerving to learn that The Eye is interested in my little study, but as Ashley said, it’s not going to stop me.

I’m at a bit of a loss on what to do now. There’s no telling where Martin is now, at least not until I’ve had a proper... _[He pauses, a bit disquieted at his word choice.] meal._ Perhaps it’s best to just explore Key West for now. See the sites, relax until I feel a bit better. Until I next See Martin.

You know, for all of Ashley’s talk of being swamped by old work, I noticed that her desk was perfectly clear of any papers when I came in. I mean, her entire office was completely clean, and the only thing on her desk was Martin’s statement. I wonder if… Well, I wonder if she saw me coming far before that receptionist buzzed me in.

[Tape clicks off.]


	3. Record 2 (Side A)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WOMAN: I'm not even sure if what I experienced was real.  
> THE ARCHIVIST: It's alright, I'm not here to judge you, only to listen.  
> WOMAN: Well, I guess I'll have to start from the beginning.

[EXT. BUSY STREETS OF KEY WEST.]

[Tape clicks on.]

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

_[Gravely.]_ Can you tell me what you saw?

**WOMAN:**

_[Starting uncertainly and frail before slowly gaining the expected steadiness associated with a statement.]_ I-I went to see Robert the Doll, it’s a pretty popular tourist trap? I love p-picking them apart and laughing at their flaws.

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

What was the unusual part about this?

**WOMAN:**

The line was empty. I don’t care what time of the day, or _what_ day it is, Robert always has visitors. Tourist traps don’t get cleared out for nothing. _[A shaky breath.]_ I don’t know where my mind was, but all I could think of when I saw that empty building was, “Sweet!” It didn’t alarm me at all. So I went through the front doors, passed by the rest of the museum really. There were other people at other exhibits, I didn’t really take the time to analyze them or anything. I went up to Robert’s glass frame and— _[She freezes, then sighs.]_ Any excitement I felt was gone. It was just dread. I stared at those hollow eyes and all I could feel was fear itself. And then… Then he began to move.

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

Move?

**WOMAN:**

Don’t misinterpret me! He didn’t get up and start a dance. It started slow. I noticed a shift of fabric near his feet. If you blinked, you would’ve missed it. But I wasn’t blinking, I couldn’t remember the last time I had blinked. As I was staring, his hands moved, just a little bit. And that just, kept repeating, with little things, other parts and other limbs, until he was in another pose entirely. I-I stared at his face, the only thing that hadn’t moved. I felt rooted to the spot. I couldn’t even move a finger, and every time I tried to take a step back, it felt like Robert would move instead, until, until. _[Her breath quickens, then a big gulp, and then she resumes once more.]_ Until his head moved. He tilted his head, and I swore he smiled at me. That’s when it happened.

He started to talk.

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on.]

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

The Stranger. I should have known. Instead, I was misled by the fact that she was _alone_ when it happened. Stupid—

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on.]

**MAN 1:**

I was separated by my family. I-it was in the middle of a Hemingway tour. The crowd of people was so big. I got separated from the tour group, and I found a door—

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on.]

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

_[A long, painful pause. Then, a sigh.]_ The Spiral.

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on.]

**MAN 2:**

I found a coin, half-buried in the mud of my backyard, miraculously shiny and bright despite its dull surroundings. It’s not unusual for things to wash up in the rain. We live on the ghost of a mighty swamp. I don’t know what came over me, but I bent down, I picked it up, and then I started digging to find more. Maybe I was hoping to get lucky and strike long-buried treasure. _[A deep sigh.]_ I found another coin a little deeper, and then another, and then another. Then, I found a hand, engorged with rainwater but the flesh still on. Any normal person would call the police right then and there, but I wasn’t acting normal. Gold will do that to you. _[A pause. Faint breaths can be heard, the speaker is obviously of older age, perhaps worked up too much by the retelling.]_ I…. I uncovered the head of the body. I reached for my phone but as I did, he opened his eyes. Where there should have been eyeballs, there were only two bright, gold coins. Then, the corpse opened his mouth and he started coughing up dirt. But even a mouth full of dirt couldn't cover up his screams.

I tried to run at that point, but I had waited too long. The hand I exposed moved, grabbed my damn leg with a vice grip. He started taking me down into his ditch, and with every inch I slipped into it, he only gained his footing more. I was up to my knees in that awful mixture of fallen dirt and exposed water, not mixed enough to be classified as mud, when my daughter came out to hear what I was screaming for. Then, all of a sudden, the grip was gone, and so was the gold. I forgot that the pirates who hid their treasures, always left a dead man’s spirit to protect it.

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on.]

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

_[A sharp intake.]_ A _very_ close encounter with The Buried. _[A long pause.]_ I hope it does more harm than good for him to finally tell it after all those years.

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on.]

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

This entire situation is frustrating. I catch glimpses of him through the eyes of others, turning a dark corner, or eating a meal by himself, and the moment I set foot towards him I See him somewhere else. Not to mention every _other_ entity that has set camp here. This entire little town is a hot spot for fear, due to it’s _[_ _in a haughty voice}_ "long history of supernatural incidents.” But, I have noticed these glimpses are getting longer. I think he’s tired, or close to it. He obviously hasn’t… _fed_ properly in a while. Maybe I can— _[A gasp.]_

[Tape clicks off.]

[Tape clicks on. A faint static is heard, then a low growling.]

**MARTIN:**

Alright, you’ve found me, but if you want to talk to me, you can’t _record_ me.

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

And how will I protect myself?

**MARTIN:**

_[The static grows louder.]_ For Christ’s sake, a tape recorder isn’t the least bit intimidating nor deadly. If I wanted to harm you, I’d have done it already, and destroyed the damn tapes you have along the way. You want to hear my answers to your burning desires? Only _you_ get to hear it, not your all mighty lord, The Cornea.

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

_[Half-offended.]_ The Eye. And the point is not to intimidate you, but to direct my successor to the fault of my untimely demise.

**MARTIN:**

_[The static grows even louder. Martin is almost outright snarling.]_ The _point_ is, if you want to keep the knowledge you’ve gained, you should stop your official search here.

[The static grows to a crescendo, his fury thick in white noise.]

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

_[Calmly.]_ If you destroy it, another will simply take its place.

**MARTIN:**

Oh? Really?

[The static builds and builds until it _pierces_ and what was once static can only be described as one long, monotonous _ringing_ deep in your ears, _shrilling_ against your ribcage, invading— _no_ , _robbing—_ you of all your other senses.]

[The tape explodes.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, obviously, things happened! But, I hate to leave a good fic rot, so I'm back. My original plan for this chapter was to have only the woman's testimony (to be lovingly named Nina, after my childhood dog) but I had abandoned this chapter halfway into her testimony with no real structure to inform May me of what January me intended. So I kept what I had and made do with the rest. Each encounter is based on a real urban legend of Key West. I originally wanted way more, but that meant digging into my book of Key West urban legends, easily a task that would've have taken me the rest of the day and tomorrow morning, and really I thought you guys had waited enough. On a side note, the book that inspired this chapter, "Ghost of Key West" by David Sloan, used to give me nightmares when I was a kid XP. I dug it back up to write the last testimony though, and will probably reread it soon. Key West is a spooky place very near and dear to my heart. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> as always you can contact me on..  
> twitter: spideydevil616  
> tumblr: gardensofeve
> 
> Black lives matter, keep fighting the good fight, help the people of yemen, wear your masks if you're going out!! hopefully I'll see you again soon!


	4. Transcription Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon have a necessary discussion.

The unfurling of the tape and soft fizzing of the speakers unnerves Jonathan, who assumed that Martin was only capable of threatening rather than acting. An error on his part, he’s still dealing with an avatar after all, no matter how sympathetic he might be to him. True to form, Martin is as annoyed with Jon’s presence as most avatars are. They sit in front of each other, seated at an outdoor dining table. It seems that Jon has caught the avatar in the middle of partaking in a physical meal.

“You’ve caught me,” the larger man says with a scowl, “now what do you want?” Jonathan notices the way Martin seems to lean back as far as possible in his chair, as if afraid to intrude on the archivist’s personal space. That was rather odd. Most avatars of The Lonely exuded an aura that forced people out, not closed in on themselves so small that no one could go near.

He sighs, fidgets a bit, and then responds, “well, I wasn’t expecting to catch up with you so soon,” he tries not to notice Martin’s pointed eyebrow raise, “but I do have one question.” He lets the silence grow thick, and then continues, “I-I thought you weren’t an avatar that first time I met you, in the bookstore. You even said so to Ashley. Except, your mother died long before I met you. You _had_ to have been an avatar you, I just couldn’t figure it out, I was too skeptical at the time. I just… I want to know why you were working there, and why you lied.” Too skeptical, and too powerless. It would take Jon many more months to submit to The Eye, and to begin to recognize avatars on sight.

Martin stares at him for a moment, then leans forward, just a small bit. “There was a lot of fear in that place, even though the source of all of it was long gone. I guess I just, was drawn to it.” He stares at the table that they’re seated at and then whispers, as if afraid to give voice to his thoughts, “I got tired of being alone. Working at the bookstore was a compromise. I could talk, smile, look at other people, but I’d never get to know them on any deep level. The Lonely fed on me for a while. I... I didn't want Ashley to know, to judge my power as an avatar, so I lied to her.”

Jon takes some time to analyze Martin's confession, and he chooses his next words carefully, “Exactly how far gone are you?”

The other man lifts his head, stares straight into the archivist’s eyes and replies, “Does it matter?”

For the first time in their conversation, Jon begins to take in Martin’s appearance. The man has deep-set eyebags, his woolen sweater seems disheveled and just slightly too big, as if he has recently lost weight. The stress of their goose chase, or perhaps the lack of victims, could be to blame. On the table is a lone slice of key lime pie and a tall glass of water, a touristic meal.

Jon, for the umpteenth time in the past hour, sighs. “Perhaps it’s time to go back home.”

“You’re the one who made me leave in the first place,” Martin replies. “Just let me finish my pie in peace.”

The archivist looks past Martin’s hunching figure to see the restaurant’s menu board advertising its two-dollar pie slices. He doesn’t have a lot of cash in his pocket, but he knows that has enough for two slices and a taxi back to his hotel. He notices a waitress walk past their table and flags her down. “Excuse me, can I order another slice of pie?” The server, a young girl with a ponytail, viciously nods and turns back inside. Jon turns to Martin again, “I’ll pay for the both of us.”

Martin grumbles but does not object. He makes it a point to turn away from Jon. Slowly, he picks up in fork and takes another bite. They sit in silence, Jon awaiting his own slice. There’s a slight breeze which helps cool down blazing Florida sun. It’s weird for the archivist to sit in broad daylight when he was so used to the monster lurking about in the rainy days of London. When his slice of pie is set down on the table, he takes a bite and scrunches his face at the acidity.

Rather than attempt to scarf down the rest of his pie, Jon elects to continue to run his mouth. “You’re a very interesting avatar, to say the least. Don’t feel like you have to respond but I can’t help but divulge that you’re not the only avatar I’ve met who has expressed repulsion by their powers.” He takes a pause, his mind now on Daisy’s plight.

“Are you the other avatar,” Martin replies.

That shocks Jon, who begins to stammer, “W-what makes you say that?”

Martin looks back at Jon with a small, yet sharp, smile on his face. “Nothing but a hunch you’ve just confirmed.”

Jon falls into silence once more. He takes another bite of the sour pie and washes it down with some water. He clinks his fork onto his plate, gently watching Martin finish his pie with greater ease. When the avatar’s plate is empty, Martin begins to stand up.

“Where are you going,” Jon asks.

“You’re paying, right? Then I don’t need to stay,” the other man says. With no more words, he grabs his belongings and walks away.

Jon doesn’t have the heart to try and chase him down once more. Instead, he watches Martin’s shrinking figure disappear into the horizon. He’s left alone with a too sour pie and a sinking feeling of emptiness. He lets himself take out his aggression on the pie, carving into it with a fork with no regard. The archivist tries his best not to notice the ticking of a tape recorder come from his pocket, the sound now loud in Martin’s absence. It was time to get back to the Institute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi X)  
> I'm trying to wrap up this fic by the end of the year, since I already have an ending in mind, but I'm not sure how many chapters it would take. My current guess is anywhere from 6-8, so buckle in for a few more moments with the Boys (TM).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and as always you can find me on my twitter (spideydevil616) or my tumblr (gardensofeve)
> 
> [August update: Jeeez I forgot to add some lines that would clear up some plotholes -__-, edited for clarity. me and my rashness on updating forgot to read the fic in its entirety to make sure things made sense.]


	5. Transcription Omitted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ROSIE: Jon?  
> THE ARCHIVIST: Yes?  
> ROSIE: Your shift is almost over.  
> THE ARCHIVIST: I know. I just have one last statement to cover.  
> ROSIE: Alright.  
> [SHE EXITS.]

_[Tape clicks on.]_

**THE ARCHIVIST:**

Supplemental. _[He sighs.]_ It appears Ms. Vedelia soon checked into a rehabilitation center after giving her statement. I… hope it helps her. I struggle to find any real causes for concern in this statement, for the things that haunted Ms. Vedelia were far more abstract than any primal fear. I suppose her statement was to help achieve closure… And yet, she seemed to stress how often she felt so utterly alone. _[A long, heavy pause.]_ Christ I’m obsessed.

_[Tape clicks off.]_

The heavy London rain permeated the office, and Jon let out a groan of annoyance. His shoulders were sore from his awful posture while working, his legs stiff from sitting at a desk all day. His body was telling him to get out of the office more than the physical clocks ticking away. So he stands up, stretches his muscles, and absentmindedly cleans up the papers laying on his desk.

He picks up his umbrella, an old ratty thing he can’t be bothered to replace until it breaks completely, and heads out. He waves to sweet Rosie at the front desk and notes the slight surprise in her face to see him leave on time. He tries not to recoil at her feeble attempt to maintain her composure. He _has_ been working more overtime than any normal job would allow. He supposes that it’s not so much his own drive to work, but rather it’s his drive to feed. He isn’t sure that does much to calm him.

When he steps outside of the Institute, the rain roars even louder, the noise irritating his ears. Right as he opens up his umbrella, the storm begins to lull into a steady drizzle. He rolls his eyes at the sky’s temperament and takes a step forward. Perhaps he would have taken another step forward had the rain still dulled his sense of hearing and had he not heard the heavy fall of footsteps to his right.

On instinct, he turns his head to see a retreating figure. They’re not running, but their brisk walk draws Jon’s attention and suspicion. There are heavy layers obscuring the true size of the person and they tilt their black umbrella, sleek and new, over their shoulder to conceal their head. They obviously don’t want to be noticed. It’s too bad Jon doesn’t care.

He quietly follows the figure, scrutinizing it. He taps into his power, hears the weight of a tape recorder in his pocket appear in response, and Stares at the other man. He takes in his gait, getting a dizzying feeling of _déjà vu_ , and suddenly, everything _clicks_ into place. The tape begins to roll.

“Martin?” His voice rings out against the fading rain. The man freezes mid-step and turns over his shoulder. Sure enough, Martin’s wide eyes stare out in shock to Jon.

They stay still for a moment, both men frozen in time. Then, Martin breaks out into a run. Jon reacts instantly, desperately reaching out for Martin’s wrist. The distance is too great for him to grab, but it doesn’t matter for Jon had already noticed Martin’s untied shoelaces. Sure enough, the other man slips in the rain, losing his balance and coming to a sudden stop to prevent himself from falling completely. Jon reaches out to grab Martin’s shoulders to steady him.

The other man turns around and tries to play it off, “Hello Jon.”

“What are you doing here? Were you waiting for me?”

Martin opens his mouth, but quickly, his expression changes, “Are you _recording?_ Can’t I have the least bit of privacy?”

Jon blushes. He reaches into his pocket and turns the tape off. “Sorry, it’s a habit. However, that still doesn’t answer my questions.”

The taller man stares at the archivist, eyes unreadable in a sea of emotion. “I… wanted to see if you came back safe.” He snorts a little and looks away from Jon. “I have to be the first avatar to stalk the Institute and get caught.”

Jon blanches a little at the thought of other avatars watching his work without being noticed but pushes the thought aside. “No, the first would have to be Jane Prentiss, but that’s beside the point. Why did you want to make sure I was safe?”

“Prentiss?” Martin asks on instinct but shakes his head, “That’s irrelevant.” He takes a deep breath and continues, “I would have felt guilty if you had died to some American avatar in an attempt to meet me.” His head is turned away, making it difficult for Jon to parse his emotions. Martin waves his hand at Jon absentmindedly, “Obviously, you’re fine, so I can go back to being an object of terror or whatnot.”

Something in his voice leaves Jon uneasy, so he presses on, “Martin… Did you need my help with something?” Martin turns back to stare at Jon, a faint worry visible in the scrunching of his eyebrows. His eyes flit back to the looming figure of the Magnus Institute.

“Could we, perhaps, talk,” and as an afterthought adds, “somewhere more private?” Suddenly the rain against their umbrellas and the thrum of cars passing by seems too great to ignore.

Jon nods. “Are you hungry? I know a coffee shop we can sit down at. Get dry.” To emphasize his point, his body decides to shiver at the chill of the rain.

A beat of silence. “Yes, I’d like that,” Martin replies quietly.

He motions for Jon to lead the way, and so, Jon does. They join some busier streets filled with foot traffic, two more umbrellas added in a faceless crowd. Jon tries not to notice the way he gets easily lost on the sidewalk, or suddenly separated from Martin, or abruptly realizes he’s gotten turned around and has started walking deeper into the throng of bodies rather than out of it. Martin makes no effort to claim his innocence. He notices Jon’s disorientation and simply stands still until the other man rights himself.

They don’t talk along the way. Despite his best attempts, Jon _does_ notice the pangs of sadness that seem to roll off of Martin in waves, only for those pangs to strike deep inside of him. He steels himself for a disquieting, if not disastrous, evening.

**Author's Note:**

> jonmartin is about the pining and the chase. i am right.  
> Tumblr: gardensofeve  
> Twitter: spideydevil616


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